Elsewhere, machines braided cotton threads into wicks of various sizes, while others inserted wicks into candles that had been cast without them. Of the fifteen or so females who operated the machines, sorted, polished and packed candles, only two were white and not of North African descent. The foreman, his assistants and two others, all of whom were busy unloading lard pails of wax and honey, were Caucasian.
Behind the windows of an office on the far side of the working floor, Schlacht was clearly in a rage. Frau Hillebrand stood next to him, irritably smoking a cigarette, while Juliette de Bonnevies sat beside Father Michel and Honoré de Saussine was with Oona and Giselle.
There was no sign of Hermann.
The Senegalese was tall and thin, and when he came upon her suddenly in the room where the wax was being separated from the honey in a press, Kohler touched a finger to his lips.
Startled, confused, she didn’t know what to do. Should she cry out a warning; should she remain silent? she wondered.
He threw an anxious glance over his shoulder towards the door through which he’d come, this giant who was even taller than herself. Everything about him smelled of fear and yet … and yet …
Her dark eyes settled on him. ‘You’re from the police, but are afraid,’ she said.
An observant woman. The jet-black hair was all but hidden under a tightly knotted kerchief. ‘Visitors,’ breathed Kohler. ‘Miliciens from the quartier du Mail et de Bonne-Nouvelle. Old friends your boss has called in for a little more help.’ And nom de Jésus Christ, why had it to be this way?
They had arrived in a hurry in two cars and had parked these across the entrance to the courtyard, thus sealing it. ‘They’ll soon be after a girl,’ he said sadly, only to hear the woman anxiously ask, ‘Which one?’
‘Not one of yours.’
‘What’s she done?’
‘It’s not what she’s done but what she intends to do.’
Once separated from the honey, the wax was cleaned by placing it in flour sacks which were submerged in boiling water — the woman used a stout stick to prod these. ‘As the wax melts,’ she said, ‘it passes through the sacks and leaves behind the …’
‘Ach, I know all about it. The unwanted bits of bee carapaces, et cetera. The wax rises to the surface of the water and you skim it off. No problem, madame, except that there are lots of extra sacks on that washing line of yours and some of them are missing from the end next to that door I came through.’
‘Missing …?’
‘Four, I think.’ Soaked through with residual wax, and then dried, as they now must be, any of them would make an ideal wick, but all the kid really had to do to set fire to the place was to turn up the gas rings under the drums that fed the votive candles. Wax should never be boiled or allowed to get too hot, because if it reached its flash point, it would rapidly expand to vapour and ignite with a deafening bang.
‘Pass the word, will you? Tell the others you’d best go on strike and leave the building while you can.’
Louis … he’d better find Louis. ‘Go on, damn it. Hurry!’
Seen from above, there were seven miliciens and as they poured from the office, St-Cyr watched Juliette de Bonnevies press herself against the windows to cry out, ‘Danielle …,’ though he could not hear her. Each of the miliciens carried a lead-weighted, black-leather truncheon which they now used to herd the shrieking workers into a corner, refusing to let them leave. They knocked things over in their haste. The iron wheels continued to turn; the pistons to spit out the votive candles. The two white girls were joined by another who called out, ‘The burners, messieurs. I must shut them off!’
They let her go and, from high above the working floor, he watched as she went to the gantried drums. She wore a kerchief, a block-printed smock, and wax-covered, charred asbestos gauntlets, showed no fear or uncertainty, knew exactly what she would have to do.
Some of the miliciens, still not realizing who it was, began to search for her and went up the stairs. She gave them time, called out firmly, ‘ Un moment,’ when yelled at to join the others, then, having turned up the burners and flung off the gauntlets, pulled the Lebel from under her waistband.
Firing only once, Danielle put a hole in one of the drums and let a stream of molten wax pour out over the floor.
‘Mademoiselle!’ called out St-Cyr. ‘Mademoiselle, you mustn’t do this! We know your brother couldn’t have come home.’
Against the thud and clank of meshing gears, the sound of his voice echoed.
‘I must!’ she cried. ‘Herr Schlacht had my brother killed!’
Killed … Killed …
‘No he didn’t! If anyone, it was your father.’
‘Papa …? But … but how could this be, please?’
‘By writing to the Kommandant of Oflag 17A.’
‘Ah no. Maman, is this true?’
Someone must have switched off the machines, for the wheels and gears soon ground to silence.
Allowed to leave the office, the mother walked out on to the floor, was pale and badly shaken. ‘Is Étienne dead, chérie?’ she quavered.
‘Maman, I thought he was alive and had come home to us. I thought he was staying at the studio but …’
‘But couldn’t have?’ asked Juliette.
‘He wasn’t there, maman, and only later did I find what had happened to him. I … STAY WHERE YOU ARE! DON’T MOVE!’ she shrieked at miliciens who had been tempted to close in on her. ‘THIS PLACE IS FINISHED, MESSIEURS. I DO IT FOR THE BEES OF RUSSIA AND FRANCE!’
‘Danielle, you mustn’t! You’re not a murderer. Some may be killed, others badly burned.’
‘Maman, did papa write such a letter?’
Letter … Letter …
‘He … he threatened to, yes. He … he even showed it to me. To me!’
‘And did you know Herr Schlacht had been to the studio?’
The studio … The studio …
‘Chérie, listen, please. I could not have stopped him. He …’
‘You knew he wanted to rape me, maman! Me!’
Some of the wax from the hole was flooding down the side of the drum. It was only moments away from curling under to the burner. The burner …
‘The other drum, Louis. The kid was going to come up here and, after torching these, throw them down, but must have felt they wouldn’t work.’
There were flour sacks in Hermann’s hands. ‘Do I shoot the daughter?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘You’re the diplomat. Try that first and buy me a little time. Oona and Giselle are still in that office with our Bonze.’
‘Madame de Bonnevies,’ called out St-Cyr. ‘If my partner and I can negotiate a reprieve for your daughter, would that not be best? The two of you to Spain, perhaps, with sufficient funds to make a new start.’
Juliette looked questioningly at Schlacht as he came out of the office with Frau Hillebrand; she looked at Danielle. ‘Spain, chérie, and a chance to leave it all behind. Is it possible?’
‘THE INSPECTOR IS LYING!’ shrilled Danielle. The fountain of wax was still pouring on the floor; she still had the revolver and would use it if necessary …